Operation Mariah’s Solo Test Flight Night had a strict itinerary1: First, Tommy and Iwould attend the Fresh Air Fund gala together, which we’d done in previous years (actingnormal). Afterward2, I would have dinner with a group of friends (actually normal). Beingout with Tommy had become such a strained performance, I was riddled3 with a horriblecocktail of anxiety and boredom4.
Fortunately, that night, I knew that some of my peers, like Wanya Morris from Boyz IIMen, were also going to be at the gala, so I wouldn’t have to wear such a heavy mask allnight. I held on to the fact that on the other side of the photo ops, thousand-dollar plates,and platitudes5 was not the usual silent, suffocating6 ride back to Westchester together butthe possibility of fun. I could get through this one. I slid into a chic7 red floor-length RalphLauren matte jersey8 slip dress and hit the red carpet, propped9 on Tommy’s arm.
All the photos from that night showed us looking in different directions, my body stiffand an awkward smile plastered on my face. There was nothing to smile about. Quitehonestly, I was afraid to smile in most photographs, as I’d been told as a little girl that mynose was too wide and smiling made it spread more. That shot of insecurity was followedby a chaser from Sony’s artist development executive, a rotund and imposing10 lady whotold me when we first met, before my first record: “This is your flattering side. You shouldonly ever be photographed on this side of your face.” (It was the side without the beautymark. Who are these people? Who. Are. They?)
I was too young and didn’t have the confidence to challenge her opinion, so I obeyed. Iinternalized so many of the damaging and cruel critiques older people had given me as achild and young woman; some have burrowed11 so deep down in my psyche12 that I willnever be able to root them out entirely13. To this day I unconsciously turn to the “flatteringside” if there is a camera around; it’s a thing.
The gala was your typical celebrity-studded chicken-dinner charity event. I sat upstraight, sucked in my stomach, and held my breath until it was over. Tommy and I fakedit all night without incident. We both had quite a bit of practice in faking it. Then it wasover: I had given Tommy his public moment, and now I was free to go! This was a bigfriggin’ deal! I was never allowed to go anywhere social without him. I couldn’t believeit! I was free to laugh and have fun, like a human being, without being shushed andsilenced and sequestered14. I felt kind of like Cinderella in reverse; it was the fancy ball thatwas the chore.
In the 1990s, Giorgio Armani was the pinnacle15 of a luxury fashion house. Armani was thego-to designer of all the A-listers. Tommy, of course, wore Armani and he was alwaystrying to class it up. And I occasionally wore Armani too. There were several cool andconnected people who worked for the designer and hung out with their cool clients. Afterthe gala, our plan was to go to a dinner party at a restaurant that some of the Armaniinsiders had arranged. My assistant and I went, and Wanya met us there. It was a fabdowntown scene.
The lighting16 in the place was low, and twenty of us were seated in the back against agigantic wall of windows, around a large dining table crowded with beautiful bottles ofwine and candles. The air was electric with playful chatter17 and laughter. And there wasgreat music playing in the background, with Wanya occasionally breaking out into riffs. Itwas an ordinary night to everyone else there, but it was a revelation to me, being outsocially with my peers and listening to the music of my time.
Though I was still being watched, I felt lighter18 than I had in a long time. I felt youngand unchained. It was not uncommon19 for a dinner party of this kind to have guests comeand go in waves, so when Derek Jeter and his friend came in and sat down across from meat the table, they didn’t command any of my attention. I found them both ambiguous.
After I briefly20 glanced up at them I thought, Who are these guys? my attention went rightback to the more interesting dinner guests.
I was never drawn21 to the jock type, not even in high school, where athletes were at thetop of the food chain. Derek and his friend were no exception to my rule. His Armani suitdidn’t cover up the Kalamazoo in him. He didn’t have the New York slick vibe that I hadbecome so accustomed to. I’m not being shady, but he had on pointy shoes. Artists can bevery tribal22, and compared to the hip-hop and R & B stars, models, fashionistas, and coolkids in every hue23 at the table, the two of them presented as rather pedestrian.
The restaurant was moody24, but our table was buzzing, and at some point theconversation moved to “inconspicuous Blackness”—passing, but with more nuance25. I wasriveted. We discussed who we thought was secretly Black or else could have some Blackrunning through them, how they might or might not identify and how they were oftenmisidentified. I had never had an open conversation about biracial or multiracialaesthetics, ever. My parents didn’t have the language for it, and Tommy never wanted totalk about my biracial identity; if he wasn’t ashamed of it, he certainly didn’t want topromote it. I couldn’t believe it: it was my first night out without him, and suddenly I wasin a dialogue about race and identity with young, smart, and creative people!
Eventually the debate turned to me. One of the guys from Armani said he couldn’t tellif I was part Black (no parts of him were Black, by the way). Wanya wasn’t having it. Hisvoice got up in his high register: “Naw, man, come on! We all know; how could you notknow?” I was laughing, but I was also deeply interested.
As if on cue, another person from the Armani team chimed in, “Derek, your mother’sIrish and your dad’s Black, right? Like, so what do you think about all this?”
All of a sudden, it was like the moment in The Wizard of Oz when the screen wentfrom black-and-white to Technicolor. I was in a new moment, a new room; it was a newnight and perhaps a new world. When I heard “Irish mother and Black father,” my headsnapped up involuntarily and turned toward Derek. Our eyes locked. A deeply suppressedsadness I had buried inside since the first painful blow from someone saying I was notwhite enough or Black enough, which translated into “not good enough,” both rose andbegan to dissolve, and a longing26 to connect took its place.
It was as if suddenly I could see him. Derek was definitely no longer pedestrian; hewas closer to a Prince Charming. This first moment of connection was so profound. I hadcreated an endless number of romantic moments in my songs, and I had been incrediblysad for so long. Finally, it was if I was actually living a dream. I saw his eyes—enormoustwinkling jade27 pearls floating in a golden-brown pool. It was as if there was no one else inthe restaurant or the universe. We began talking across the table; the banter28 waslightweight, sparkly, and deeply flirtatious29. I couldn’t recall the last time, if there had everbeen one, that I’d felt butterflies talking to a man.
The rest of the evening we talked, soft and easy. Eventually I realized how awareeveryone was of our attraction, but I didn’t care. This was my night out, and I was feelingthe sweetness of freedom, the rush and allure30 of it all. I knew I was being watched, but tohell with that. Derek was young, mixed, ambitious, and doing his dream job, just like me!
In the midst of all the people, lights, and music, it felt like we were the only ones in theworld. Even though it was just a flicker31, it was still fire.
Brazen32 as it was, I allowed Derek to walk me to the car, where a driver — akaTommy’s agent, of course—was waiting. Being with him in that moment felt like living.
I’ll never forget walking next to him that night, looking up at him, with his height and theway his athletic33 body moved. I felt diminutive34 next to him. It was such a differentexperience. This two-minute stroll on the pavement was more exhilarating to me thanwalking a thousand staged red carpets. It was a real moment. I was loose on the streets ofNew York, the sultry late-night breeze blowing my hair and pressing the delicate jersey ofmy dress against my body. I actually felt good. Unencumbered.
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1
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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nuance
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| n.(意义、意见、颜色)细微差别 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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32
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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